


Trevor, Kiss me!

by Luxie



Category: LCS, League of Legends
Genre: Defickshot, EU LCS, LCS - Freeform, M/M, RPF, Somehow it's always you, Sorry again Trevor, Spring Spilt Finals, This is crack more than anything else, Trevor Kiss Me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 07:25:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3801829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luxie/pseuds/Luxie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2015 EU LCS Spring Split Finals are in Madrid and everyone knows the Casters gets a bit more gutsy when they are out of the studio. What Trevor doesn't expect is just how far Martin is willing to go to throw him off kilter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trevor, Kiss me!

**Author's Note:**

> I take full responsibility!

Sometimes Trevor wishes he could sleep on planes. It’s not that he minds flying so much, it’s the waiting around that gets to him. He always gets restless and skittish, but it’s more than just travel nerves this time. Which is ridiculous, really, but he just can’t seem to shake it off.

Maybe he just feels wrong without Leigh and Joe here. When they left the LCS it took more out of Trevor than he cares to admit. After all, Leigh had been his room mate, his father, brother, best friend, not to mention his partner in crime more times than Trevor can count.

And Joe had been such a big part of why Trevor even got into esports to begin with. And then somehow he went from being Trevor's idol to being the guy who stopped by when ever he felt like it, leaving his disgusting and cheap beer at their flat, because he though Trevor and Leigh might want to drink them later on. They never had the heart to tell him they had thrown it all out.

Thank God he got to keep Eefje. Not only is she the snarky little sister he never knew he wanted, but she's grown so much and the analyst desk has never been in better hands.

Compared to the rest of his colleagues, Martin is the puppy. He's grown up, too, that part is hard to miss, but he still has to get help with his tie and he still gets insecure when he has to do a solo presentation, still comes to Trevor for advise, even though the damn boy wonder entered the caster scene at Worlds like a whirlwind, earning his current reputation and then some, with so many hours of hard work that Trevor sometimes feels like the newbie compared.

Martin is the kind of guy who pushes everyone around him to be better, too. It made him a pretty decent coach, even at the age of twenty, but Trevor is really glad Martin made the call to pursue shout casting as a career when his team fell apart. The caster team gained a strong player and Trevor gained a good friend.

Thankfully, he'll have Martin by his side for the Spring Split finals. With the prospect of four days with hectic preparation, press and rehearsals, the casting might even turn out to be the relaxing part.

Well, either that or it will be five hours of Martin trying to throw Trevor off kilter.

It's a funny phenomenon that Krepo refers to as _travel-balls._  It usually starts as soon as the plane lands and all casters and analysts suffer from it on some level. Somehow the fact that they are away from their usual studio means that more things are allowed, like a certain disregard for the no-swearing-rule, the occasional innuendoes and of course the puns. So many puns.

To be fair, Martin doesn't suffer from travel-balls more than the rest of them, but there is no denying that he's still the same guy who gave Bjergsen the legendary shout-out of “Fuck you” on stage. Sometimes Martin's mouth just runs off with him and even though Trevor thinks himself pretty good at dealing with surprises, they usually come from the players and not his co-caster.

Which might be the actual reason why Trevor is so uneasy. At least thinking about it does nothing to shake the strange nervousness that’s been building for the past week, so to combat it, he plugs his earphones into his phone and leans back into the seat as the randomizer picks the music for him.

One less decision to make.

Madrid is warmer than he expected and by the time he manages to stow the extra shirt away in his bag, he has lost sight of both Eefje and Martin in the crowded airport. Despite the fact that he's living out of his suitcase more often than not (that is if the suitcase ever arrives as it should), he somehow manages to get halfway to luggage claim, before he remembers to turn his phone off flight mode.

It doesn't even take a full minute before “Deficio” flashes up on his caller ID.

“Are you really so old that you can't keep up?” Martin says and Trevor can practically hear the cocky smile in his voice.

“Don't forget the room is in my name.” Trevor counters. “Don't think I won't leave your ass stranded in the reception all night.”

“You'd miss my ass to much.” Comes the deadpan reply and Trevor isn't going near that one with a five foot pole. Instead he demands for Eefje to be put on the phone so she can guide him to the right exit.

 

The Palacio Vistalegre Arena is grand and, quite frankly, a bit of a technical show-off, even compared to the new studio back home. Trevor spends the next two days preparing for the 3 rd  place matches with Eefje, Dentist and Leviathan and he almost forgets that they're in sunny Spain until Martin and Devin stops by to remind them that meeting fans _outside, in the sun_ is a completely valid and important part of their job.

It turns out having his picture taken with hundreds of hyped fans is very therapeutic and by the time they return for wardrobe and make-up Trevor is buzzing with energy. It carries him through all five matches and the post production. Even as the production team sends them off to bed Trevor feels too excited to just go to sleep.

Instead he and Martin spends the text few hours in front of Martin's laptop, Martin in his boxers and a plain t-shirt and Trevor in his Avenger's comfy pants and a grey tank top. They talk about the two finalist teams and their solo-queue picks, theory crafting about any wild-card picks that UOL might throw at them and how each meta champion fits any given composition.

At some point Martin goes on a rant about item builds for Junglers and Trevor just lets him, trying his darnedest not to think about how cute Martin is when he gets excited about something. When Martin flops down on Trevor's bed with his laptop, there's a crazy moment where Trevor lets himself imagine how easy it would be to just take the laptop out of Martin's hands and push him back on the bed, straddle him and watch as his eyes goes wide.

Christ, is he really that touch-starved?

It's not that Martin isn't pretty to look at, but Trevor would never - _has never_ – considered any of his co-casters in that way before. Except James Fucking O'Leary, but you'd have to be dead to not even consider that.

It's not until Martin stops talking that Trevor realizes that he may or may not have been staring at Martin's mouth.

“You okay?” Martin says, but he looks more amused than worried. “You spaced out.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I'm just. I've been feeling a bit off.” He manages, feeling the strange nervousness sneak back in. He really wish Martin would get off his bed.

“It's been a while since you shout casted a big live event, hu?” Martin says, but there's something in his voice, something in the way his fingers fidget with the side of his laptop, that tells Trevor that Martin knows more than he's letting on, that this is Martin giving him an easy out. And Trevor should take it, is going to take it, but then Martin's eyes shifts from the screen of the laptop to meet Trevor's.

“It's not the casting that makes me nervous.” Trevor admits before he can control his damn mouth. The words in themselves aren't too bad, really, could be about anything. So instead of trying to smooth it over, which he knows by now Martin is too damn smart and stubborn to fall for, he decides to pull rank and issue orders instead. “Now get off my bed. Five hours is an absolute minimum of sleep, when you're my age.”

Martin complies with a smug smile, sliding off Trevor's bed to go to the bath room. While Martin is brushing his teeth Trevor opens the window wide, letting in the cool night air. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“Hey.” Martin says and Trevor's head snaps up to see the other man leaning against the door frame to the bath room. There is something curious and determined in the way he looks at Trevor, like he's analysing him. “I make you nervous?”

Martin like this is dangerous and Trevor knows he has exactly three seconds to decide if he wants to deny it or pretend Martin just made a joke. Admitting anything isn't even an option. “It takes more than you batting your lashes at me to throw me off kilter.”

“I bet I could, though.” Martin says dead seriously as he get into bed, as if the best way to get under Trevor's skin is just another strategy he can theory craft his way through.

Trevor gets into his own bed and turns off the lights, listening to the sounds of the city and Martin's soft breathing. Even if there's just under five hours until they'll have to get up, Trevor lies awake for a long time and tries to figure out just when and how he fucked up this badly.

 

 

The morning of the Finals he finds his way to make-up, where he's met by very disapproving looks. All he can do is sit down in the chair next to Eefje and apologizes for the dark circles under his eyes.

“Tired?” Eefje asks and her tone has him lifting his head to catch her eyes in the mirror. She blinks back at him, the perfect picture of innocence, but he's sure he didn't imagine the note of something suggestive in her voice.

“I'm shattered.” He ends up admitting, because even if she _thinks_ she knows, there is no way she actually _does_ know and he's going to do his damnedest to pretend there is nothing to know. “I'm getting too old for this.”

“Aww, don't say that.” She says, reaching over to pad his hand. “You're just four years older than Martin.”

This time he knows he's not imagining it. “Are you being deliberately suggestive in the hope that I'll cave in and confess something?”

“Is there something to confess?” Damn. He knew Eefje is a shark, he just hadn't realized he was haemorrhaging quite this badly. Apparently he looks sufficiently miserable, because her voice softens as she continues.

“You know,” She says, “what happens in Madrid, stays in Madrid.”

“Yeah, unless the whole production team knows.” He counters, earning himself a smile.

“Just what _exactly_ is it you think they don't already know?” She asks and slides out of her chair.

Trevor watches her leave with his mouth slightly ajar, but he manages to shut it when a cup of to-go coffee appears in front of his face. He looks up to see Martin smile down at him, looking far too smug, like he somehow knows he's saving Trevor's ass.

“I found a way.” He says as he slumps into the chair Eefje just abandoned.

“Hu?” Trevor says, because for a moment all he could focus on was the miracle that is coffee.

“Never mind.” Martin says, but he's smiling when Trevor meets his eyes in the mirror and somehow, by the time the two of them sit down and get ready to go live, Trevor has forgotten all about the nervousness he's felt all week.

 

 


End file.
